For better or for worse this too shall pass
like a small bump in the undulating grass
of memories of a time long past by
some nice,some beautiful and some downright ugly
but memories nevertheless ,as time does fly
as you see him play,ur 5 yr old
and walk along the pavement with your love
who warms your heart on a day so cold
as u all retire to your home, your own private cove
Monday, June 15, 2009
Sunday, June 14, 2009
Smile
Hi thr,
Considering I am now 19 years old--not exactly , records indicate there are a little over 147 days in my account over and above the 228 months that I lay claim on in my opening phrase, but then thats just a technical detail not really relevant to the matter at hand except as menial fillers who will from now on traverse the time axis ,bamboozling readers with their irreverent irrelevance and force them to wonder why in the first place they were put where they currently reside and why doesnt the writer get on with whatever he was getting on with at the time of writing besides guzzling beer at one o clock in the afternoon.
The length of the opening sentence, I am told on good authority, can be compared to the writer's random walk index. Which deserves another definition. Consider a writer's imagination ,and a well endowed writer at that, as a Vietnamese mine field, muddy, wet and full of randomly placed ,what else, mines amidst dense jungles and rice fields. What separates a good writer from a drunk sleeping on the bank of a murmuring brook is how easily can he flit from one mine to another blowing himselves up in the process several times over with ideas that he had buried in his mind during some highly interesting episodes from his life: the time he kissed his girlfriend for the first time[ by a glaring ommission of length scale consideration, his lips ended up on her midriff but then they werent really made for each other], the time he was buried in the sand at the beach by his friends and left there till he was light golden brown at which point they very thoughtfully turned him over etc etc. u get my drift ,right? Now these are what are classically known as inspirations and go a long way[213 pages in his latest novel to be exact] in filling inconsequential details about the Countess de la Roche and the dark brooding General Augustus or the escapades of idiosyncratic spies who like to eat bananas or cut hair to apply their minds to the case[cutting hair,especially ones own ,i s a mildly therapeutic activity and goes a long way in saving your monthly bills for the purpose in case u wish to know]. Now ideas are all very good but I daresay ,coherence in dictation is also a very important if not essential weapon in a writer's repertoire. And that, I am told but on shady authority this time, can be directly mapped to the phenomenon of the bombed writer's return to the same spot where he started after 'x' number of flits from his initial blow up, only to be surprised " Hey i was here before, let me pick it up from where I left." This maintains what snobbish writer refer to as the "flow" of the story. The current author however is one of the new schools' who would rather be caught pants down in the Buckingham palace while having tea and scones with the Queen than consign his obnoxioulsy random ideas to the burning fires of this "flow".At the same time, as general trend shows that people, though opening up rapidly to new and queerer forms of mass communication are still not that comfortable with the literary equivalent of a hotch-potch,(http://www.soupsong.com/rhotchpo.html) it is time that I found my final flit back to where I started.The random walk index [RWI if you are into TLAs ] is just what you presume it would be, if what you are presuming is what i presume you are presuming and not something else. It is the number of ideas, landmines if you will ,that the author [or A is you are the sort of weird nutcracker who likes OLAs ref: TLAs] finds blown in his face before reaching back to his original mine, given that his flit from one to another is completely random. This is a very important parameter ,among 113 others, that a publishing house measures while considering a new manuscript that some school teacher wrote in her past time when she should have been teaching kids. Current records indicate Douglas Adams was the undisputed champion in this,having once managed to get stuck in an infinitely long infinite loop that is infinitely challenging to pull off and infinitely complex to create not to mention infinitely impossible to keep the reader going on for an ,you said it, infinite amount of time not forgetting the fact that he/she has a finite time at his/her hands. I mean , you absolutely have to be up to filling up pages no matter how flimsy or strong your initial plot is.Look at Ayn Rand. The fountainhead is like the Seinfeld of literature.
I am tired.
Signing off
DJ
P.S. If you aere wondering about the topic of the blog it had something to do with the categories of smile.. Am not too far from the topic now am I?
Considering I am now 19 years old--not exactly , records indicate there are a little over 147 days in my account over and above the 228 months that I lay claim on in my opening phrase, but then thats just a technical detail not really relevant to the matter at hand except as menial fillers who will from now on traverse the time axis ,bamboozling readers with their irreverent irrelevance and force them to wonder why in the first place they were put where they currently reside and why doesnt the writer get on with whatever he was getting on with at the time of writing besides guzzling beer at one o clock in the afternoon.
The length of the opening sentence, I am told on good authority, can be compared to the writer's random walk index. Which deserves another definition. Consider a writer's imagination ,and a well endowed writer at that, as a Vietnamese mine field, muddy, wet and full of randomly placed ,what else, mines amidst dense jungles and rice fields. What separates a good writer from a drunk sleeping on the bank of a murmuring brook is how easily can he flit from one mine to another blowing himselves up in the process several times over with ideas that he had buried in his mind during some highly interesting episodes from his life: the time he kissed his girlfriend for the first time[ by a glaring ommission of length scale consideration, his lips ended up on her midriff but then they werent really made for each other], the time he was buried in the sand at the beach by his friends and left there till he was light golden brown at which point they very thoughtfully turned him over etc etc. u get my drift ,right? Now these are what are classically known as inspirations and go a long way[213 pages in his latest novel to be exact] in filling inconsequential details about the Countess de la Roche and the dark brooding General Augustus or the escapades of idiosyncratic spies who like to eat bananas or cut hair to apply their minds to the case[cutting hair,especially ones own ,i s a mildly therapeutic activity and goes a long way in saving your monthly bills for the purpose in case u wish to know]. Now ideas are all very good but I daresay ,coherence in dictation is also a very important if not essential weapon in a writer's repertoire. And that, I am told but on shady authority this time, can be directly mapped to the phenomenon of the bombed writer's return to the same spot where he started after 'x' number of flits from his initial blow up, only to be surprised " Hey i was here before, let me pick it up from where I left." This maintains what snobbish writer refer to as the "flow" of the story. The current author however is one of the new schools' who would rather be caught pants down in the Buckingham palace while having tea and scones with the Queen than consign his obnoxioulsy random ideas to the burning fires of this "flow".At the same time, as general trend shows that people, though opening up rapidly to new and queerer forms of mass communication are still not that comfortable with the literary equivalent of a hotch-potch,(http://www.soupsong.com/rhotchpo.html) it is time that I found my final flit back to where I started.The random walk index [RWI if you are into TLAs ] is just what you presume it would be, if what you are presuming is what i presume you are presuming and not something else. It is the number of ideas, landmines if you will ,that the author [or A is you are the sort of weird nutcracker who likes OLAs ref: TLAs] finds blown in his face before reaching back to his original mine, given that his flit from one to another is completely random. This is a very important parameter ,among 113 others, that a publishing house measures while considering a new manuscript that some school teacher wrote in her past time when she should have been teaching kids. Current records indicate Douglas Adams was the undisputed champion in this,having once managed to get stuck in an infinitely long infinite loop that is infinitely challenging to pull off and infinitely complex to create not to mention infinitely impossible to keep the reader going on for an ,you said it, infinite amount of time not forgetting the fact that he/she has a finite time at his/her hands. I mean , you absolutely have to be up to filling up pages no matter how flimsy or strong your initial plot is.Look at Ayn Rand. The fountainhead is like the Seinfeld of literature.
I am tired.
Signing off
DJ
P.S. If you aere wondering about the topic of the blog it had something to do with the categories of smile.. Am not too far from the topic now am I?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)